


I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

by m_madeleine



Category: Willow (1988)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Female-Centric, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Reluctant Parent, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: Sorsha breaks the cycle.





	I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sylvia Plath's _Three Women_.

Sorsha walks the halls of Nockmaar one last time. It seems appropriate for a goodbye. What kind, she isn’t sure.

Here, in the courtyard, she had her first sword lessons, falling on bloody knees over and over again. There in the alchemy room, bend over a cauldron, her mother’s voice had been even, her nails like claws on the back of Sorsha’s neck.

Magic ran in the women of her line. Her mother had surrounded herself with wise men, but ultimately, Sorsha knew, she thought nothing of them. 

Sorsha knows nothing about her father. She is sure, if he ever existed, she must have gotten her weakness from him.

***

No one wants to see the aftermath of a battle. No time for dignity or heroics; just makeshift tents full of soldiers, too tired to be happy. Or sad, for that matter.

In the aftermath, she finds Madmartigan brushing out his hair, with a rigorous hand and a worn comb, and she does not ask about the gold-plated armor at his feet, and he does not ask her to explain herself, as he should have long ago, and that suits her fine.

Instead, he offers to brush her hair out for her, too. She refuses. She has to. Not that she’s usually diligent about brushing it wet. Many a time, she’d cared more about getting grime out of it than whether it would tangle, or frizz, or break.

(Sometimes, she’d almost wanted it to.)

He complies, with some confusion. But he does hold his word, combs her wet hair out for her in a much-needed bath, the gentlest one could be with inexperience. After all, his own hair flows like the coil of a gleaming river. Easy. Forgiving.

***

In her dream, her mother doesn’t speak as she caresses her hair, but Sorsha has learned her lessons well, though she is barren of the ability to bring them to life. Copper withstands fire, but what does that matter when it’s soft, useful only in bonding with others. And like she waited for Sorsha to finish the thought, her mother tightens her grip and pulls, rips out strands of her hair and Sorsha screams—

—and wakes. Next to her, Madmartigan is fast asleep. 

She settles back down, tries to make her breathing match his, unable to stop her shivers. Unsuccessfully it, it seems. He hums inquisitively, half-asleep.

“You stole all my furs,” she whispers, choking on the words. In all fairness, he actually did.

He pulls her in tight under the heap.

***

When she was a little girl and her mother had still put more emphasis on an intimidating kind of diplomacy rather than outright despotism, Sorsha had often been part of official functions. The maids would glue down the unruly wispy hair at her temples and forehead, and then form her curls in elaborate ways, always braided and strict and tight, always tugging on her scalp until tears would spring into her eyes.

She keeps her hair down, for the celebrations.

They’re both nervous. At least, Sorsha is prepared for this, in one way or another, though the prospect of her mother’s eternal reign had not done her competence any favors. Nobody has called her a princess in years.

She does as well as she can, keeps her face even and her smile from turning into an anxious grimace. She even manages, mostly. At some point, Madmartigan puts the baby into her arms and she accepts it without even realizing, but once she becomes aware of the weight, she freezes. Sorsha had held the baby before, yes, but that had been part of the mission. She’d barely acknowledged it as alive. But now — and she has to remind herself, _Elora_ , she has a _name_ — suddenly, it’s a child.

She does not have much time for fear, at any rate. The Nelwyn disappears around the corner of the coiling road and just like that, winning is over.

***

They would not make her queen of Tir Asleen. Considering it had been her mother who razed it in the first place, Sorsha finds that fair. And yet, the plains stretching from the castle to Nockmaar need governing, rebuilding. The maps she had spent years studying had different points of orientation, but they translate well enough.

Sorsha hears representatives. Calls rulings. Makes alliances. Wears a lot of white, whenever it’s even remotely practical. Let them think she is changed, in any way, as if that matters. She hasn’t, really, but who would understand that?

She avoids the sorceress, when she can. There is a different smell about her, the earthiness of natural sorcery, herbs used for a base instead of powdered gems. But magic smells the same, dusting a robe, leaving traces down the folds of long sleeves.

If it were only that. Really, it’s understandable Raziel finds it hard to believe the spark of her mother’s magic burned out in Sorsha. It’s just that Sorsha has made peace with it a long time ago. As much as she ever will.

Madmartigan watches Elora. Sometimes, Sorsha does, too. Not often. She watches them, instead. Watches Madmartigan produce toys from somewhere or other, making her laugh. Watches him peruse the library for books with pictures interesting enough for a child, which he then explains to Elora, propped up in his lap. She seems to like maps the best, tracing her chubby fingers along rivers and mountain ranges.

Once, her mother had read books with Sorsha, too. The pictures had been different, tables of elements, schematic drawings of the universe, but she’d liked following the gilded stripes just the same.

Elora likes the bestiary the best, loves it, in fact, by how she jabs her little fingers at the illustration of a unicorn. Madmartigan catches her small hand in his own. He might not be one for finer things, but he understands value, or at least the librarian’s scorn. Sorsha tenses, inadvertently, stupidly, but he just kisses Elora’s tiny fist and turns the page for her.

Sorsha swallows, hard.

***

That night, she dreams of her mother slaughtering pigs; light glints off her blade and her teeth as she gently slices at their throats—

Sorsha wakes up frozen. Fighting for every breath, she forces herself up, running, but her legs don’t obey, so she stays sitting up on the bed; at least that way, the blankets don’t smother her.

“Wonder you’ve got any teeth left, you grit them so hard,” Madmartigan mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

She closes her eyes and keeps breathing harshly through her nose. Her jaw is cramped shut.

He shifts and touches her shoulder and she flinches away, but then he’s just loosening her braid, fingers finding his way around the coils and twists, and re-braiding it. Dimly, she thinks he’s doing something way too complicated for sleeping. But she doesn’t scold him for wasting effort or straining his eyes in the dark. Instead, she rests her head on her knees and waits for her lids to grow heavy again.

***

A lot time ago, back at the castle, some used to say she was born already with the flaming red hair of a witch. Some also used to say that on that day, her mother had been happy.

***

Another night, and she’s back in the tower, her mother’s sharp gaze on her, and still, she has nothing to say for herself. And what would there be to say? _I’m sorry I left you for a stranger, mother, I think I was saving myself?_ Her mother smiles, almost gently, and when she sends her towards the thorns this time, they pierce her all the way through—

Sorsha wakes. And breathes out slowly. It’s one of the easier times. It has been harder; it will still be, often enough. Next to her, Madmartigan is still deep in sleep. He would not mind if she woke him up, she’s sure. Perhaps he would even want her to.

Instead, she lights a candle, thinking to take it to the library and making some of the morning’s work easier on herself. Yet, almost out of the door, she sees Elora sitting up in her crib, looking at her with her strangely wise eyes. After some hesitation, Sorsha sits in the chair next to it, where Madmartigan loves to sit and sing her the strange songs of his homeland, down in the south, places she only knows from cartography lessons. She watches the candle light glimmer golden on Elora’s curls and Elora looks back at her, a rare frown comically serious on her round face. Sorsha snorts despite herself and rocks the wooden crib with her foot.

Elora will grow up to have a powerful, gentle spirit and, no doubt, she will be beautiful and gifted in all the right ways.

How nice to be prophesied perfection.

“Well, you’re special enough for the two of us, aren’t you,” she says quietly. Elora gurgles in return, smiling again. And Sorsha realizes she cannot wait for her to start talking.

***

(Elora grows up to be many things, but Elora also grows up choking on rain in her sleep, with nights full of nightmares about lightning, cold stone and bowls full of blood.

Sometimes, she’ll force herself back to sleep, wait it out the darkness, until the morning when her father will braid her curls tight before taking her out into sunshine and mud, and teaching her to beat him at his tricks.

But sometimes, she will toe on her slippers and see if she might find her mother awake as well, reading and writing by candle light. Then, Elora likes to sit quietly, some mostly forgotten needlework in her lap, and watch the sharp strokes of her quill on parchment.

And sometimes, before the mist even clears, her mother will take Elora out into the hills with arms full of arrows, and with a firm hand on her shoulder, teach her not to let the target stop her aim. 

She misses, often.

 _Don’t we all_ , her mother will say then and smile, gently.)


End file.
